A little boy I was, just lost my home
So the mission took me in, so I wouldn't roam
A hair cut, a bath, new shoes on my feet
Plaid shirt & coveralls, that was my beat
Up in the morning, fall down on my knees
Pray to the Lord the right way I see's
Off to school after porridge, lard and bread
Trying to pound math and Catechism in my head
Never too brilliant was I in school
But serving the Altar, I was no fool
Our Father which art in Heaven, Amen
I could 'cite that backwards - in Latin
Yes, a little boy, lost with no mom or dad
In the third year there, I became a "Wetbed"
They swatted my bum with a big black strap
The backside of me should be a horizontal crack
Yes, I would jump and jig and howl in pain
Then fly in a tub, hoping the Nun had right aim
Sometimes the tub's faucets would bang on my head
But that was the downfall of being a "Wetbed"
Now it's 5:30 a.m. and we're off to pray
Three times on Sunday, that was the way
The Nun like my mother, the Priest like my dad
With guardians like that, who could go bad
The mission was army, we walked two and two
Discipline was the order, what else could they do
Some missions were good, some were bad
Those who suffered, I feel real sad
I have words for those who dwell in self pity
That's not the answer, just say "tough titty"
The $350 million we got to cure decades of scars
The Vultures will get most of it to buy new cars
They'll travel all over, eat up the fund in time
The victims of missions will not see a dime
For those of us left, not yet in our coffin
These wise words, you will hear often
Lift your chin high and proudly walk on
Keep a smile on your face,
like the sun always shone.
- The Mad Trapper, (Fred Stevenson), Kinuso, Alta.